


Still

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, mentions of fenhawke breakup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29997957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: There are plenty of things Varric and Hawke are good at: snide remarks, drinking the swill served at the Hanged Man, getting into trouble, nearly dying but still managing not to, witty one-liners…but sitting down and talking about their feelings? Eh, not so much. That goes double when the feelings in question are of a, uh, complicated nature. Or romantic. Or both. And Maker help them, but things have absolutely entered ‘both’ territory. Surely they’ll figure it out, right? Right. …right?Hawke and Varric try to figure some stuff out.
Relationships: Female Hawke & Varric Tethras, Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 23
Kudos: 17





	1. The Question

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!!! This fic is the result of a convo with Serphena over on tumblr - puh-lease do yourself a favor and go check out her art if you haven't already!
> 
> I'm always a sucker for exploring these two and their delicate dance between friends and something more, so buckle in, cuz we're going places ;)

It wasn’t strange to find Hawke passing the time around the Hanged Man those days—which, of course, wasn’t to say it was _ever_ strange to find her there, it had just become more of a regular thing was all. From what he could gather, Leandra hadn’t been half as thrilled at the sight of all the gold they’d managed to haul back topside as she’d been furious and heartbroken at losing Carver to the Wardens, and knowing what he knew about the strain that had existed between the two of them before…well, Varric thought he could piece together why Hawke might’ve preferred to spend her time among Kirkwall’s finest instead.

So no, it wasn’t strange to find Hawke passing her time around the Hanged Man, but it _was_ strange to find her in one of its rooms. At first he thought he must’ve misheard Corff, that when he’d said “Eh, she’s in the back,” he’d actually meant _out_ back, like _outside_ , maybe searching for an alley clean enough to vomit into instead of using the gutter like the tavern’s baser clientele…only she hadn’t been outside.

It was about that time he began to suspect that Hawke’s home life wasn’t the only thing that had been fundamentally changed by their time in the Deep Roads. Not by a long shot.

He found her in one of the rooms after all, her back against the wall, the buckles of her armor half-undone, an empty tankard held in both hands like a child might hold a warm mug of cocoa. She hadn’t looked up at him when he’d first entered the dingy little room, and she didn’t look over to him then. Her eyes were wrought on the grate of the fireplace in the corner, and horrid as it was to admit, he was having a hell of a time deciding whether it was her gaze or that grate that was the emptiest thing in the room—the _coldest_ thing.

After a long while, she pulled in a breath to speak, and had it not been for that, hell, he might’ve gone the rest of the night thinking she hadn’t noticed him at all. When she asked her question, there was a moment where he almost ( _almost_ ) wished she hadn’t. “Are we still friends?”

There really wasn’t any describing what happened to his insides at that. “I—wh— _of course_ we’re friends! Maker’s…Hawke, why _wouldn’t_ we be?” Without wasting his time on things as pointless as pretense he joined her on the floor, all hope of maintaining his usual façade thrown by the wayside. In one fell swoop, with four little words, she’d somehow managed to stick him right between the ribs where everything was soft and vulnerable. By then the worst of the surprise was wearing off, and he was appalled at what he found lurking just beneath it: Fear. Bald-faced _fear_. Fear that he’d missed some sign, some cue; fear that he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time; fear that Bartrand’s betrayal would cost him even more than it already had; but above everything else, it was fear of something he’d never before considered.

It was fear of losing her.

There’d been…so much he’d pushed to the side during the expedition, especially after watching Carver limp away with the other Wardens. He’d told himself that he’d deal with piecing it all together once they hit topside again, but deep down, he had to wonder if he’d ever actually intended to do any of that. Sitting down and taking stock of his feelings? That had never really been his strongest suit…but now here was Hawke, cutting him to the quick with barely a sentence. Were they still friends? Were they still _friends?_

He’d known from the moment Corff nodded him towards the back rooms that something was wrong, that maybe he’d find her drunk or beaten up or robbed blind but this? There wasn’t a thing in the world that could’ve prepared him for this _,_ a hurt so… _fundamental_.

Next to him she shrugged, her eyes still blank and distant, the shadow of her hair making them dark as night in the ill-lit room as she turned the empty flagon round and round in her hands. “The expedition’s over,” she said after a pause so long he’d considered repeating himself. “Contract’s over. Just wasn’t sure if that’d be the end of it…” Her voice trailed off again, and the discomfort in his gut grew duller but somehow _worse_ , reaching out through the rest of him with greedy, searching fingers.

This was the part where he’d say something clever. He’d fire off a witty retort and she would smile, the smile would become a laugh, and then things would return to normal. She would laugh and then they could be their usual selves again, all nudging shoulders and sarcastic asides, and once they managed that, they could do _anything._ Go fleece the public in a few hands of Wicked Grace or Diamondback, maybe. Hassle Norah until she threatened to kick them out. Make up story after story to keep themselves occupied and pretend that they had never, _ever_ let their masks slip away to show what lay beneath the grins they wore so well. Any second now he’d set that plan into motion…any second now…any second…

“We’re still friends,” is what he _actually_ said, neither clever nor witty, just an echo of himself and nothing more. “The expedition’s got nothing to do with it.” How could she ever think it _had?_

But…but just for a moment—just for an _instant_ —he felt his stomach drop.

How could _she_ have thought it? Well that was actually easy enough to answer. A couple months ago, shit, maybe even a few _weeks_ ago, _he_ might’ve thought the same. After all, hadn’t his original offer been one of business? He hadn’t approached Hawke that day in Hightown because he’d wanted a _friend_ , he’d sauntered over with one hand out and a shyster’s grin because she’d been Athenril’s miraculous Fereldan wunderkind, the refugee who’d come tumbling in off the Waking Sea with a chip on her shoulder and bruises on her knuckles, and he’d heard the stories of the shit she’d pulled off and the scores she’d landed and the heads she’d bashed in, and shit! If her contract with the elf was almost up, then it was only a matter of time before someone else swooped in and made her an offer, and why shouldn’t that have been _him?_ So when it’d turned out she’d been interested in Bartrand’s expedition— _their_ expedition—it had felt as though the stars had aligned and he’d been presented the greatest business opportunity of his life.

Then, though…well then he’d actually _met_ her, and Maker, all that bullshit had flown right out the window.

The ghost of a smile tugged at Hawke’s lips and it was somehow so much worse than the blank expression she’d worn before. “Okay,” she said, not sounding terribly convinced. There was a quality to her voice that he couldn’t immediately place, something that wasn’t quite maudlin but wasn’t _not_ , and for the first time he found himself doubting she’d been in her cups tonight at all. He thought, perhaps, she’d been crying just before he’d found her.

The thought twisted something in his chest that he’d never noticed there before.

She shifted against him then, if only slightly, her boots scraping the hard-packed floor as she pulled her legs up under herself. Like that, she felt deceptively small and exceedingly vulnerable; less a hawk and more a sparrow, fighting not to be blown off-course by the slightest puff of wind. Maybe the others would’ve found it difficult to reconcile all of that with what they knew about her—the toothiness of her grin, the swagger in her step, the ever-flowing font of wisecracks and witty one-liners—but not him. Not Varric. No, no, all at once, that side of her, that quiet, secret part…it made too much sense. It was familiar. He recognized it as clearly as he might’ve recognized the sight of himself in a looking glass, and why not? If anything, he only wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Then again…maybe he _had_.

Maybe he had.

Hawke swallowed hard enough for him to hear it. “I miss Carver,” she said after a long while, her cheek warm even through his duster.

“I know.” For someone who took so much pride in his wit, Varric couldn’t for the life of him think of anything else to say. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t _nearly_ enough, so he put his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer to him instead, hoping that might help where his words had failed.

“I miss _Bethany_. I miss Ferelden. I miss the farm, I miss…” She drew in a breath that shook like leaves in a storm, and without fully realizing what he was doing, Varric lifted the hand that had been on her shoulder to instead gently rest on her head. “I miss _Father_. I just…I just _miss it all_ , and there’s no going back now, is there? None at all. There’s no fixing any of it, no getting them back.”

“I know.”

She sniffled wetly, and while he didn’t turn to openly confirm his suspicion, he thought the hand she brought to her face was meant to wipe away her tears before they could fall. “And I’m just…I don’t know. I wanted to be sure, I guess. To know we’re…” Her voice trailed off then, one of her shoulders slouching in a shrug. But that was fine. As it turned out, that was just fine indeed.

He knew what she was getting at. Again, why shouldn’t he? It was an ache he knew all too well; he missed his mother, there were days where he thought he missed the _idea_ of his father if nothing else, and much as he was loath to admit it, in his own sort of way, he almost missed Bartrand too. Almost. Things had a funny way of seeming prettier, seeming _kinder,_ when you were looking back on them.

It took him a moment to realize the hand he’d set comfortingly on her head had taken to stroking her hair, and there was something to be said about that, but Hawke didn’t seem to mind so he saw no reason to stop. Instead, he cleared his throat once (unsure of precisely when it had grown so tight) and tried to do what he did best: crack wise.

“Well I have news for you, serah Hawke,” Varric joked, surprised at how easily the words came to him that time. “Not only are we friends—I’m getting rid of that ‘still,’ if you don’t mind, because quite honestly I don’t much care for your _ridiculous_ insinuation that something as run-of-the-mill and banal as nearly dying down in the Deep Roads could somehow impact this relationship of ours—” at that, Hawke _laughed_ , and it was soft and sad but it was perfect all the same. “Not only are we friends, but I regret to inform you that you are _irrefutably_ the best friend I’ve ever had. So.” It was his turn to shrug a shoulder, though he was careful to make sure it wasn’t the one she was resting on. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Hawke lifted her head and turned her face up to his, and as he got his first _good_ look at her, he realized how off he’d been before. He thought maybe she hadn’t just been crying earlier, but _weeping_. All of that seemed very far away then, because while her eyes were still red and ringed and her cheeks were dewy with tears, he could see that smile— _her_ smile—doing its damnedest to buoy up through it all, and as always, it was proving positively contagious.

“I mean it,” he said in that same tone, jovial and lighthearted, the verbal equivalent of an elbow-nudge. “Sorry to say it, but you’re the _exact_ sort of ne’er-do-well that appeals to House Tethras…good at cards, bad at everything else—”

“Hey!”

“—willing to sacrifice anything, including your own physical well-being, for the sake of a joke—”

“These really don’t feel like compliments, Varric.”

He pretended not to hear, carrying on in that same vein, taking to making grand, sweeping gestures with his other hand. “—you drink like both of your legs are hollow, you always know when someone’s trying to cheat you, you’re…eh, let’s say fairly good-looking—”

“ _Fairly?_ ”

“—for a human.”

Hawke _snorted_ and dropped her head into her hands as her shoulders shook—that time not with tears but laughter.

Varric, for his part, couldn’t help but laugh right along with her, letting his arm drape around her shoulders again. “ _Precisely_ the sort of rapscallion that appeals to my very, _very_ exacting sensibilities as a seedy back-room grifter, you understand. So I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but _yes_ , we are friends, Hawke, and _no_ , there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Without a word of warning, Hawke moved against him, sitting up on her knees and throwing her arms around him in the tightest, most bone-crushing hug of his life. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had clung to him like that, and so it didn’t come as a shock to find he was hugging her back just as tightly, squeezing and squeezing until he swore he could feel her heart in his chest.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pretty okay, as far as seedy back-room grifters go?” Hawke asked, her voice slightly muffled as her cheek rested on his shoulder. She made no sign that she was ready to let go of him, much less pull away, but he thought he could hear a full-blown smile shaping her words.

“Well, _you_ just did,” he snickered. “Anyone ever tell _you_ that you’re pretty okay, as far as Fereldans go?”

“They have. But you know, I wouldn’t mind being told again.” That time she _did_ loosen her grip to pull away; if she noticed that it took him a moment to do the same, to let go of her, Hawke certainly didn’t show it. “Thank you, Varric,” she said after a beat, her smile genuine though her voice threatened to break as it had before. “For what it’s worth…and it may not be worth much…you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, too.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a _surprise_.” Once she let go of him he took to his feet, and after dusting himself off he offered her his hand. “C’mon,” he said when she only furrowed her brow in response. “Seedy or not, I think you’ll find my room has a warmer fire _and_ significantly better booze.”

She took his hand and heaved herself up off the ground, her smile softening at the edges. He felt that unknown, unfamiliar thing in his chest give another lurch at the sight of it. “You trust me not to muddy the floors or stain the fine linens, then?” And oh, that time it was almost like normal, almost like she was all right. “Fereldans and mud…you know how it just clings to us.”

“Hawke, _my_ palatial suite in the Hanged Man is _your_ palatial suite in the Hanged Man. Muddy whatever the hell you want,” he chuckled, giving her hand a little squeeze before letting go. He found it harder to do than he might’ve anticipated even ten minutes ago. Something had changed, all right. Or perhaps he’d just finally noticed it.


	2. The Signet

For something small enough to be totally hidden away in the cups of her palms, the box felt unbelievably heavy…or sharp, or…or _something_. It seemed at once that the blasted thing was made out of the densest substance known to man and nothing at all, that if she held onto it any tighter it would slice through her palms or perhaps be absorbed into them, that…

Oh, she had to get a handle on herself. She had to get a handle on herself _right now_ or else the whole surprise was going to be absolutely shot, and she had _not_ gone through all of that trouble just to rain on her own parade.

Hawke stepped into the Hanged Man the way she always did—as though she owned the place. It was early enough in the night that she didn’t actually have to step _over_ anyone (yet) to make her way towards the stairs, but even so, each step she took felt purposeful. Deliberate. Careful. She’d shown less restraint traipsing through ruins with suspicious floor tiles and blood spatters on the walls, honestly.

“I _just_ cleaned,” Norah called to her none-too-gently, “You’d better not be planning on making a mess, _Hawke._ ” It never failed to surprise her how other people waved her name around like some sort of cudgel.

She whirled around with a smile and an innocent expression, the box cupped safely away in her hands. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of it!” she said, really pouring herself into the act, her voice positively bursting with saccharine sweetness before she turned away from Norah and her exasperation. Blast. She’d really thought she’d been pulling off the whole ‘subtle’ thing. Ah well, Norah wasn’t exactly the person she was interested in surprising, anyway.

Her steps lost their confidence about halfway up the stairs. This was precisely what she’d been afraid of—the doubt sinking in. Oh but that was foolish…even downright _stupid_. She’d been so _careful_ leading up to this, she’d checked and double-checked, and all right maybe she hadn’t _triple_ -checked, but at a certain point one just had to trust oneself and…oho, she was going to lose _all_ of her nerve if she didn’t just _do this_.

Hawke took a steadying breath, reaffixed her grin, and all but skipped the rest of the way over to Varric’s door. It was open just so, signaling to anyone who might need a favor (or two, or three, or ten) that he was in; long past such trivialities as knocking, Hawke nudged it the rest of the way open with her hip and sauntered over the threshold.

“Got something for you,” she said, beaming as he looked up from the papers on his table. With her hands clasped behind her back, she took one, two, three waltzing steps into his suite, walking along an invisible wire to give her hips a playful swish.

She watched his eyebrows climb higher and higher up his forehead with each passing moment he didn’t see the ‘something’ in question. Ah, but this was a game they’d played countless times before, so she wasn’t terribly surprised when Varric just snorted a low laugh and went back to flipping through whatever it was he’d been working on. “Do you now?” he asked, “Whatever could it be, I wonder?”

“Mmm…” Hawke hummed, dropping her sashay as she finally made her way to the table. Sitting on the very corner, she did her best to catch his eye, knowing full well he was only _acting_ uninterested. “I can’t just _tell_ you! Where’s the fun in that? As with all great gifts, you have to guess what it is if you _really_ want it.”

“Oh I have to _guess_ , huh?”

Her brow furrowed for a moment as she leaned closer to him, hands still clutching the box behind her back and well out of his sight. “My, my…have you noticed an echo in here lately? Strange. Someone should make Corff aware of this peculiar development.”

He rolled his eyes in her direction and she smiled wider in return (if such a thing were even possible). There was a slight narrowing of his eyes, a thoughtful look, and…there it was!

True, she was hoping to keep the surprise _a_ surprise right up until the last, but she knew it was pointless trying to keep her excitement hidden from him. Varric, after all, was something of an expert when it came to reading people, and she…well there was no use denying it, she’d never really _tried_ to develop much of a poker face of her own. No, she had to figure in that moment she was something of an open book to him, and that turned out to be the hook—she saw realization dawn in his eyes. Oh, she saw it all right, maybe even _felt_ it in the air, and the instant he let his interest be known, she had to bite down on the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing outright.

“If you don’t _want_ to guess, that’s fine too…” she said, feigning a sigh, “I’ll be happy enough to keep it for myself, really. No skin off my nose.”

“Is it…a sovereign?” he asked, managing to maintain at least a sliver of his aloof act. …for the time being, anyway.

Lips pursing in thought, Hawke took on the expression of a woman trying to philosophize her way through one of life’s greatest mysteries. “Hmm…no, no I don’t believe it is.”

“Is it _fifty_ sovereigns?”

At that, she shot him a look of utmost disbelief. “Varric. You truly believe that if _I_ — _me. Hawke._ —if _I_ was walking around with fifty sovereigns in my pocket, my first point of business wouldn’t be to drink myself into a stupor or buy the first horrendously gaudy monstrosity I passed for the express purpose of hanging it above my mantel, but to bring them to _you?_ ” She scoffed derisively, going so far as to throw her head back in a pantomime of hilarity. “Ha! It’s like you don’t know me at all!”

At that he finally had to lay his hands flat on the table and turn to her, his face managing to say everything without a single word. He knew her, all right. And _she_ knew _him_. Which was precisely why she knew it was driving him up the fucking wall that he couldn’t guess what she was hiding behind her back. Her grin gave way to bright, self-satisfied laughter.

“Okay, it’s a rare and exquisite breed of nug.”

“Not this time, sorry.”

“No? Huh, must just be _you_ that smells like that, then.”

“The dwarf has jokes!”

“More where that came from, too. Okay, okay…is it some kind of…food? Maker help me Hawke, after that Fereldan monstrosity you made me eat last week, it better not be. For _both_ our sakes.”

She shook her head but remained tight-lipped past that, her eyes gleaming with a breed of mischief uniquely her own.

“Is it something you stole?” Varric tried, changing tack if only to try and get a better read on her. “Perhaps from one of our dear, sweet friends? I’ll remind you that the _last_ time you—”

“ _Please_. I learned my lesson. Aveline made sure of that.” Hawke scrunched her nose up at the memory. Sometimes, on rainy days mostly, she could still feel that one. “Not stolen. I’m a dog lord, not a thief.”

He didn’t say anything to that. He did, however, raise his eyebrows.

“…fine, I’m not a _common_ thief. Thank you, as always, for calling my scruples into question, Varric, it’s really my favorite part of this friendship. I bring you nice things…you insult my morality…”

“She says as though she has a single scruple to speak of…”

“I have at _least_ one! At _least_ one scruple!”

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

The table creaked as she sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes until she was half-sneering, half-smiling. “I don’t need to sit here and take this from you. You do realize that, don’t you? I could just…walk right out that door and…” As she said it, one of her hands trailed out from behind her back to gesture towards the door, the box obvious in her palm.

Quick as a flash, Varric grabbed it from her, ignoring the pleased little wiggle she gave her shoulders as she grabbed hold of the table’s corner, scooting backwards until her feet dangled off the floor. He held her gaze and flicked the box open with his thumb, no doubt still trying to find some sort of hint in her eyes. “Let’s see what we have here…”

And there it was, plain as day, carefully cradled in the box’s padding.

The playful back-and-forth felt suddenly miles behind them, a _lifetime_ behind them.

Hawke realized she was holding her breath.

In his silence, she leaned in closer again, peering into the box for half a beat before searching his face. Everything inside of her was buzzing like a shaken nest of hornets, and it was only that last scrap of uncertainty keeping her giggles from spilling out of her at the seams. “It’s the right one, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice coming out so much softer than she’d intended—so much _smaller._ She knew it was the right one, she was so sure of it, but…but his silence made her second guess herself. The look on his face wasn’t helping. She wished he’d say something, _do_ something, react in some way that would break the mad fluttering of wings in her chest and stomach; if he didn’t, she thought she might burst.

“Where did…where did you _find this?_ ” he asked after an eternity, reaching into the box and removing the ring inside. For the longest time he simply held it, setting the box down onto the table with the sort of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

“The bazaar,” she said quickly—maybe a little _too_ quickly—still watching his face. Beneath her, her ankles crossed and uncrossed, her boots scraping against themselves in a quiet rhythm. “I got it in my head this morning that I had all these vast piles of coin in my new sprawling estate and they were all collecting dust…so why not go down Lowtown way and do something about that?”

She was mindful to omit the part of the story where she made it a point _every_ week to check with any new vendors visiting the city. Maker, half the sellers in Thedas probably thought her mad, returning home with tales of the strange Fereldan-turned-Marcher hell-bent on touching each and every one of the rings they had for sale, always scowling when she saw the shape of the signet set into them, never buying anything.

It didn’t strike her as an especially pertinent detail.

“It… _is_ the right one…isn’t it?” she asked again, finding it hard to swallow around the growing lump in her throat.

He nodded, his fingers all the while turning the ring over and over and over again, and she had the distinct sense he was feeling for familiar nicks and chips, trying to convince himself as much as her. “It’s the right one,” he said once his shock seemed to settle enough for his voice to return, and (not that she noticed such a thing), the tremble in his words was as small as the tremble in his fingers. “It’s…my father’s.”

She knew that.

She knew _he_ knew she knew that.

They both knew that they both knew, but damned if she knew what any of that knowing _meant_.

“Bartrand pawned it off to help pay for the expedition, and I…” And oh, there were a million ways she had imagined he might end that sentence: I never thought I’d see it again, I’ve been looking everywhere for it, I figured it was gone for good, I can’t believe you found it, I can’t believe you _found it_ , I can’t believe _you_ found it; but he didn’t say any of those things. That wasn’t too surprising, in retrospect…Varric was a writer, after all, an _author_ , and she’d known from the start that her predictable little daydreams would never— _could_ never—amount to the real deal. Instead he looked at her, really _looked_ at her, and said simply, “Thanks, Hawke.”

And she beamed twice as brightly as before, shrugging her shoulders as if to say ‘aw shucks.’ She didn’t need him to say anything else. She knew what he meant.

Varric slid the ring onto his finger, testing the weight of it there. One of the last remaining links to his father, his family, his past…would it be heavier than he expected? Lighter? Was it too loose or too tight? Hawke realized she was staring and averted her eyes to look at _anything_ else.

The fluttering in her chest had not lessened. She gave it a moment. Two. A second. Many. A minute. More. And still it remained.

She was very, very relieved she hadn’t mentioned her habit of checking all the shops.

She was even more relieved that he hadn’t _asked_. Just then, sitting on the table with her feet swinging in the air, she realized it would’ve been a difficult question to answer.

What would she say if he asked her _why_ she’d spent all that time looking? How could she even begin to explain to him what she was only starting to realize herself? She couldn’t think of a single joke to crack or wiseass remark to make, and that was bad—that was unbelievably bad—because if she couldn’t think of a way to deflect she might actually end up saying something stupid, something she couldn’t take back, and…

“Maybe now Orzammar will answer my letters,” Varric remarked, and just like that, the air in the suite shifted around them.

Hawke sensed it, the tacit permission to return to normal, and glommed onto it with all her might, pulling her legs up onto the table along with the rest of her. “ _That’s_ what you need,” she joked, reaching over to help herself to whatever was left in his flagon, swirling it around before taking a curious sip. “The Qunari and the Templars and the Mages and all of us filthy Fereldans and _Hubert_ aren’t enough for you, hmm? You need to add _Orzammar_ into the mix.”

“I _have_ been running low on fine dwarven crafts, just of late. Where better to replenish the stocks than direct from the source?”

In a single gulp, she polished off his drink and made a grand show of slamming the flagon onto the table again, lifting one of the papers he’d been reading earlier for her own inspection. “Where indeed,” she joked, and though she wouldn’t admit it under penalty of death, she hoped that with her face half hidden by the paper, he would somehow miss the not-insignificant flush she felt working its way down her ears and up her neck from the excitement of having done right by him. “Do me a favor, would you?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could, now fully invested in the pantomime of proofreading his writing. “If anyone asks where I got it, say it was…I dunno…in the belly of a dragon.”

He laughed and snatched the paper away from her, the dim light catching on his new (but not _quite_ so new) ring in the process. “Yeah, that _does_ sound like a story I’d tell about you, doesn’t it?” he chuckled. “Quick question though, not to poke holes in what’s promising to be a very compelling narrative, but how did the dragon come by the ring in the first place?”

“Don’t know,” she sighed. “Didn’t ask.”

“A tragedy, truly.” She caught him looking down at the ring again with an expression she couldn’t quite parse, though it lasted only for a moment. “Well, I guess we both know what this means…go ahead and put yourself on my tab for the night, serah.”

She gave a childish gasp. “Do you mean it?”

“Hey, what else are friends for, right? Go on. I don’t know how much of the swill they hock here adds up to a family heirloom’s-worth, but I’ll let you be the judge.”

Reeling back as though struck by an arrow, Hawke found she only had to half-feign her swoon. “Be still my heart! My nefarious plan finally comes to fruition! If you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll get started straightaway.” She hopped off of the table with a flourish, secretly glad for the excuse to turn away from him if only for a moment.

Her heart was still racing as she leaned her arms against the bar to ask Corff for her usual, but she tried not to pay too much attention to that.

She _tried_.


	3. The Respite

Despite the warmth of the fire crackling away in the grate, something about the Hawke estate always called to mind a winter’s morning after a heavy snowfall. If he had to guess, it had to do with the quiet of the place, the way the walls muted and dulled the sounds of Hightown into little more than the gentle whispers of a city’s breath. It was a far cry from the sharp, raucous clanging of the Hanged Man, that much he knew…

Which was probably why he managed to get so much writing done there.

Varric gave the page an appraising glance, impatiently wafting his hand over it to speed the ink drying, and felt the distinct weight of eyes on him. He turned after a moment to favor the Mabari staring up at him with a humoring look. “This can’t be interesting for you,” he said, chuckling at the sound of the war-dog’s nubby tail thumping against the floor. “Why don’t you go bother…” His voice trailed off when he glanced up and found the answer clear as day before him. “…ah,” he smiled, reaching over to pat Dog’s massive head before standing with a grunt.

Quiet was hard to come by in their line of work…there was always some _one_ , some _where_ , some _thing_ that desperately needed their assistance. Often immediately, but usually sooner than that. In the good old days that had equated to underground business—Carta, Coterie, various other sundry bullshit—but now that they’d hit their stride as the ‘triumphant survivors’ of the Deep Roads, they were _lucky_ enough to add the Viscount, the Qunari, and even the Chantry to their list of miserable, greedy-fingered admirers. What an honor, getting to break up the monotony of protection rackets and smuggling runs with the dirty work of Hightown’s elite.

The money? Excellent.

Everything else? Eh, less so.

He’d only made it a few steps from the writing desk when an idea struck him; with a brief glance (and _maybe_ a smirk) over his shoulder, Varric leaned onto the desk again, opening Hawke’s battered journal and flipping through until he reached the ribbon marking the day’s date. No entry yet…and that was good. It meant she’d find herself a nice little surprise later, likely right before she turned in for the night.

‘ _Spent the day in a manner best befitting my station_,’ he wrote, flicking his wrist at the end of every third or fourth letter to mimic the atrocious chickenscratch Hawke called handwriting, ‘ _Namely lounging about like a pampered Orlesian lady. Oh, but if only someone would bring me my tea and some of those frilly little cakes I do so adore! Perhaps I should’ve left a note with the talented, charismatic, charitable, handsome dwarf I left all alone as I slept…blast, what was his name again? The one who writes those wonderful novels? Ah, no matter. Unimportant for someone of my standing, I suppose. Why trouble myself with the rabble, that’s what I always say. All in all, a thoroughly wasted day._’

Not his best work, but it would do. He shut the journal with another inward laugh before heading over to the bed, grabbing up the blanket that lay rumpled down by the footboard and pulling it over Hawke.

She stirred, though not enough to brush her hair out of her face, grumbling a less-than-convincing “I’m not asleep…” as she felt the weight of the blanket fall over her.

“Pretty sure you _are_.”

Hawke took a deep breath in through her nose, one of her hands reaching up to rub at her face. “Mmm…nope,” she mumbled, somehow even _less_ believable the second time around. “Definitely…awake…and _prepared_ to…to…um…hmm…”

He couldn’t help but chuckle warmly at that. “Ever the wordsmith. I’ll let yo—”

If her mind was bleary with sleep, made thick and slow, her reflexes were just as fine-tuned as ever; she snatched his wrist as he made to leave, tugging him back resolutely. “You’ll let me _nothing_ ,” she said despite the obvious heaviness of her tongue. “The seco— _pfft!_ ” It was right about then that it seemed she finally noticed all the hair in her face. She blew away as much of it as she could, swatting at the loose strands with her other hand, and then promptly returned to what she’d been saying as though the interruption had never happened. “—the second you step into the Hanged Man, Corff’s going to have thirty-some messages for you that require your _immediate_ and _undivided_ attention.”

“Probably.”

She hummed and gave his wrist another tug. Then, sensing no movement on his part, rolled onto her side and patted the empty expanse of bed. “So don’t. Stay here and do something about those frightful bags under your eyes, good ser. The poor, miserable urchins of our beloved city-state can wait.”

“What, and take Dog’s side of the bed?” He glanced back towards the desk and rolled his eyes when he saw the Mabari’s ears perk up at the mention of his name. “He’ll never forgive me.”

“Sure he will! We Fereldans are a very forgiving sort!” A wide, leonine yarn punctuated the statement. Curling into herself, Hawke let out a sleepy laugh and added, “Just ask Orlais.”

Years of practice and even still…that gave his poker face a run for its money. Oh, she’d _love_ that little note whenever she found it. “Uh huh,” he said, “You realize that if I stay here, those thirty-some messages Corff’s hanging onto for me will be closer to forty- or fifty-some by the time I get to them?”

Instead of answering, Hawke’s fingers crept spiderlike across the bed sheets until she could grab a solid handful, turning them over with a soft _thwump_. She’d caught the first waver in his voice no doubt, the old familiar tone that told her in no uncertain terms that she was winning. She burrowed deeper into the pillows and patted the empty space again.

“ _And_ …” he continued, grimacing at the creaking of the floorboards under his feet ( _also_ telling her what she needed to know as he walked around to the other side of the bed), “Chances are good that once those messages pile up and people start to realize I’m not—and to a much greater extent, _you’re_ not—there, they’ll come _here_ to try and—”

“Maker’s _breath_ , Varric. Do you really think so little of me?” It was hard for her to sound indignant, half-dozing as she was, but he had to give it to her, she was trying. “In the event of such a situation, I left very specific instructions for Bodahn, you see.”

“…oh this oughta be good.”

Like the cat that got the cream, Hawke waited until she felt the mattress dip and groan to scoot herself backwards, nestling her back against Varric’s side (not to mention jamming her _icy_ feet against him), detailing her elaborate plan in a sleep-slurred voice. “Mhm. I knew you’d want to be writing, so—oh, did you manage to write?”

“Some.”

“Some,” she repeated with a nod, pulling the blanket closer up under her chin. “Well I told him no interruptions no matter the cost. If _anyone_ insisted on coming in to speak with us, I said he should firmly—but kindly—inform them I’m far, far too busy to see any callers.”

“And when the caller in question inevitably inquires _what_ could be so unspeakably important?” he asked, shifting his arm so Hawke’s weight wouldn’t give it pins and needles.

Another yawn, more insistent than the last. “Well, in the event of _that_ happening, he’s to inform them that I’m fornicating with their mother.”

There was a stretch of absolutely perfect silence as Varric turned his head to her, not needing to see her face to know how proudly she was grinning. “… _fornicating?_ ” he repeated, breaking into a laugh that came out much drowsier than he’d intended now that he was lying down. “Did you actually tell him to say _fornicating?_ ”

Hawke glanced over her shoulder just long enough to meet his eyes. “I couldn’t ask Bodahn to say _fucking_ , now could I? That wouldn’t be professional.”

Both of them laughed then, the canopy of Hawke’s bed serving to intensify the winter-morning feel of the place, the fabric absorbing the sound and rounding it out at its edges into something smooth, gentle, soft. Soon enough the laughter gave way to yawns, and the yawns gave way to the quiet creaking of the bed as they settled in, Hawke tossing and turning until she came to rest against him, and then there was a comfortable silence marked only by their breathing.

And really, the rest of the day could’ve (and probably _would’ve_ ) passed in that same way, all of Kirkwall’s troubles safely out of reach in the cozy four-post bed…had Dog not decided to climb up with them, curling up at the foot of the mattress with a snuffle and a snort.

“He’ll forgive me, huh?” Varric asked, much closer to being asleep than awake, Hawke’s head a heavy but comfortable weight on his shoulder, her body warm with sleep and nestled up to his side. “That sounded awfully disdainful to me…”

“He’ll get over it,” she mumbled, “He likes you too much not to.”

In the quiet that followed he sensed an opening for another witty retort, some sort of lighthearted quip that would keep their back-and-forth moving properly, well, back and forth, but he let it slip away. Already he could feel her breath evening out, the familiar corkscrew tension of her body lessening, softening, releasing, and…shit. Shit, shit, shit.

It was almost impressive, really, how things _never_ turned out the way he expected when she was involved. Almost.

He had, in all honesty, stopped by to get some writing done there in the manor. It really _was_ quiet, and it really _was_ peaceful (when Leandra wasn’t in one of her moods, at least), but as he lay there with Hawke snoring at his side, the drapery of her bed partially drawn, his mind walking the precariously narrow path between sleep and waking, he felt that pretext begin to slip.

He’d been worried.

Well, all right, he was _always_ worried on some level—came with the job, really—but he’d been noticing things of late. Things that made him think back to that day in the Hanged Man when she hadn’t been able to meet his eyes. Noticing was the curse of a writer, an ability he couldn’t deafen no matter how hard he tried, and lately…lately it was bringing his focus to things like the tension that had settled over their usual table at the Hanged Man. Things like how Fenris had claimed a new seat during Wicked Grace nights—one where he wouldn’t have to meet Hawke’s eyes between hands. Things like how Hawke had stopped trying to break up his and Anders’s arguments with jokes and had resorted instead to plaintive looks. Things like the strain in Hawke’s smile and the slump in her shoulders. Things like how tired she looked when she thought no one was watching.

He noticed. But he held his tongue. And he’d _keep_ holding his tongue if that’s what she wanted; Maker knew she held hers.

Hawke, after all, was the _only_ member of their merry little band who’d never _once_ asked him about how or why Bianca had gotten her name—not even to _joke_. If all she wanted in return was for him to do the same, to simply play along as though he already knew the whole story and nothing was left to be said of the matter, then sure. Sure, he could do that. He could make her laugh and put her on his tab and make sure she took the time to sleep when no one else in Kirkwall (their ragtag group of co-conspirators included) seemed to give a damn, and he could do all that and more without ever once mentioning the things he’d picked up on, those telltale details that had stood out to him bold and blinking like signal fires on the horizon. He didn’t want to _pry_ after all, and…

And as he shifted to tuck his head against Hawke’s, he finally admitted to himself that that was a load of shit too.

It was not wanting to pry, sure, but…hell, it was mostly just not wanting to _know_. If he asked her about Fenris, if something had happened between them, Varric suspected she’d tell him. She’d tell him all of it, beginning to end, front to back, side to side, and everything in between. And then what? Well, then he’d _know_ (another writer’s curse, that: knowing), and once he _knew_ it, there’d be no denying it. He would _know_ how she felt about the elf, brooding frown and all, and it would be that much harder for him to convince himself that maybe…just _maybe_ …one day…

But that was a train of thought meant for the small hours of the night where the fire burned low and his ink began to clot as he neared the bottom of the well, not _now_ , not with the day’s golden light still spilling through the window. Besides, it was only a suspicion after all; he only _suspected_ Hawke would tell him if he asked.

Just like he suspected he’d tell _her_ about Bianca if _she_ asked. But she didn’t.

And a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps their reasons were the same. But that was ridiculous. Pointless. _Stupid_. He’d heard this story a time or two before—hell, he’d _written_ it himself. The hero ended up with someone vibrant, someone loud, someone dynamic, someone _important_. Not the narrator. Never the narrator.

No, not knowing was better. It just…it was.

So he shut his eyes and convinced himself there was no harm in a short doze of his own, that he’d wait until he was sure Hawke was well and truly asleep before he’d carefully slip out from beside her and go about the rest of his day, doing everything in his power to try and forget how _right_ it had felt to drift off, just the two of them, with her curled against his side and her dog at his feet. He’d forget, he’d forget, he’d forget, or at the very least he’d pretend he had, and maybe then the gloom that would settle over their table at the Hanged Man wouldn’t be so difficult to bear once all the others had gathered round.


End file.
